


Frost, then Flowers

by glim



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Royal Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 00:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7597021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I suppose I'll have the Dragonlord Emrys, then," Arthur says. </p><p>"It could be worse," Morgana replies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frost, then Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daroh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/gifts).



> Fills the 'marriage' square on my Trope Bingo card for Round 7.

Uther slams a heavy book on the table in front of Arthur, startling him from the reading he's already doing, and points to the marked pages at the back of the book. 

"Today. You're choosing one today." 

Arthur does his best not to voice the 'no' that rises up in his throat. Though he's put it off for two years, this day has been fast approaching since his twentieth birthday this year. He sighs, shuts his book, and turns to his father. 

"What if I don't like any of them?"

"You don't have to _like_ any of them. You just have to marry one of them." He nods at the heavy volume, a catalogue of current nobility, and crosses his arms over his chest. The gesture is familiar and one that Arthur has come to learn not to challenge. "Surely, even you can find one person among the peerage to marry." 

The 'no' rises up again, but Arthur starts to skim the entries. He stops at one and reads carefully, and looks up when his father makes a sound of approval. 

"See?" A smile starts to spread across Uther's face, then quickly disappears when he realizes Arthur's reading his own entry. "Oh, good lord. Tell me at the end of the week who you've chosen, or I'll chose for you."

*

"Well, he chose you, didn't he?" Arthur points out when his mother reminds him that he probably doesn't want his father picking out his life partner.

"Yes," Igraine says, not looking up from the letters she's writing. "But your father and I were twelve when we were betrothed and I rather suspect our mothers had more say in the decision than anyone else."

Arthur curls himself up in the window seat in his mother's chambers and listens to the quiet scratch of her pen over the paper as she writes, and the soft sound of the cold winter rain outside as it falls. "But what if I don't want to get married?" he asks after a long period of quiet. 

His mother doesn't reply immediately, and Arthur can her her continue to write for a few minutes more. When the sound stops and he hears the rustle of her skirts, Arthur looks away from the window. 

"Many people don't. And you might decide to live separately from your husband or wife. After--"

"--after," Arthur says. 

Igraine touches his hair and pushes his fringe off his forehead. Another gesture he can recall as far back as his memories go. There's sympathy in her touch, but there's also a firmness in it, as in his father's.

"After," she says. "After you marry, and have a child or appoint an heir. Then, yes, you might choose that."

*

Arthur mopes around the castle for a day, avoids his parents the next, and practices with his knights for more hours than necessary for the rest of week. On Friday, however, he sits down with the ridiculous book and starts to look through it. 

"You're not married," Arthur says when Morgana sits down next to him. 

"Not now. I've already been married once," she points out. "Besides, I have Gwen. I don't need to get married again." 

Arthur frowns. Morgana had married a minor prince from the eastern kingdoms who died six months into their marriage. She came home to Camelot, and when her little girl was born four months later, her husband's family decided she could stay here. A month after that, she and her girlhood companion took partners' vows and that was that. 

"You could help me, then," Arthur says. 

Morgana takes the book eagerly. She's happy here, with little Helene, and Gwen, and bossing Arthur around also seems to make her happy, so at least one of them isn't miserable at the moment.

"Hm, do you want a man or a woman?"

Arthur shrugs. He's quite fond of both, really. 

"Right. Well, nobody too old, unless you're hoping they'll die soon? No? Right... Or too young?" She asks.

"Well -- no, I don't feel like waiting another ten years to get the ordeal over with." 

Morgana flips through the book, then makes a pleased sound when she gets to the very back. 

"What? Did you find somebody interested in --" Arthur looks over her shoulder, then gets a look on his face much like the one his father had earlier. 

"It's Helene! I don't care if she gets married or not, but I do want her page in the peerage to be impeccable." 

Arthur sighs and takes the book back from Morgana. They look through it together, eliminating anyone too old or young, and anyone they already know to be boorish or ignorant. After a few hours, the both look at each with a sense of resignation. 

"I suppose I'll have the Dragonlord Emrys, then," Arthur says. 

"It could be worse," Morgana replies. 

*

No. 

It could not be worse. 

The Dragonlord Emrys is a fool of a sorcerer who can't manage to not trip over his own feet, so Arthur has no idea how he's at all adept at magic. He looks about five years younger than his miniature, his ears stick out, and whatever passes for formal wear in Cymru looks more like what Arthur would wear in his bedchamber. His given name is Merlin, which Arthur also decides is ridiculous, for no good reason other than he doesn't want to be married to anyone, much less Merlin. 

"They're formal magician's robes," Merlin says, sounding hurt when Arthur scowls at his clothing. He smoothes his hand down the blue velvet, then tugs self-consciously at his collar. "But if the custom here is for--"

"No, no, it's fine," Arthur says. He's starting to feel guilty now for the scowl; the robes are probably new, he's had a four day journey to get to Camelot, and the feast has already started. "Let's just get it over with." 

Time seems to slow down as soon as they sit down at the high table. Merlin finds every course a pleasure, of course he does, and he's completely charmed little Helene with his comments about the jugglers and Morris dancers. 

"Sorry," he says, after spilling wine in Arthur's lap the second time at his welcome feast.

Arthur just sighs. He has a headache, he's been up since before dawn to prepare for this feast, and his future husband is gaping at the entertainment like a country bumpkin. "Haven't you ever seen players before?"

Merlin shakes his head. "Not like this. I've seen the local guilds put on plays, but this is fantastic."

Arthur wants to sigh again, but he holds it back. "Look," he says, "you don't have to pretend to enjoy all of this."

"I'm not--" Merlin reaches up to tug at his collar again. "Oh. I see. Well, it'll be over soon," he mumbles. 

They don't speak for the rest of the feast, and Arthur lets Morgana escort Merlin back to his rooms at the end of the night. 

Arthur returns to his own rooms alone, headache still pounding behind his eyes, and the dull ache of guilt settling in his chest. 

*

He intercepts his squire and a page boy in the corridors the next morning, asking for his breakfast to be delivered to the sitting room in the suite given to his fiance. 

When he gets to the rooms reserved for Merlin, Arthur hesitates. There's no good way to do this, though, so he knocks and hopes he's not too early. After a minute of quiet, he can hear footsteps, then a quiet voice. 

"Oh," Merlin says when he answers the door. "I'm not dressed for court yet."

Arthur smiles and shakes his head. "You don't need to be. I'm having breakfast sent to your rooms. If you don't mind?"

He shakes his head. When he opens the door, Arthur can see he's barefoot, in loose, soft trousers and a tunic that's left unlaced at the sleeves and throat. 

"I'm sorry --"

"No, I didn't realize --" 

Arthur stops, and Merlin looks down at the floor. 

"I thought you'd chosen me, for a reason," Merlin says. "A political one, I mean, and that you intended... I'm sorry if this was forced upon you." 

"Please don't apologize. It wasn't-- well, no, it was. But you weren't forced upon me, and besides, I acted like an idiot last night." 

Merlin smiles, shakes his head, and touches Arthur's wrist with his fingertips. "Cymru is happy to be allied to Camelot. Once we name an heir, it can be purely political arrangement."

Arthur feels something inside him loosen. Politics, he can handle that. He can even handle political negotiations and correspondence. That sort of commitment is one he's been trained to handle. 

"Alright. We'll start there." He lets Merlin take his hand and lead him to the settee in the sitting room. 

"Good. We'll start with breakfast, then you can meet Aithusa."

*

Aithusa, as it turns out, is Merlin's practically pocket-sized baby dragon. 

"Oh god. Is he really... real?" Arthur pets the tiny dragon's wings and smiles when Aithusa leans into the touch. "But ... he's so small?"

"Only now. Aithusa will grow, slowly, then probably have a growth spurt in twenty years or so." 

Aithusa practically purrs as Arthur pets him, then leans up to nuzzle against Arthur's fingers and to nip affectionately at their tips. He chases a bit of string around with Arthur, plays with the pile of colored pebbles Merlin sets out for him, then folds himself up in Arthur's lap for a late morning nap. 

"Aithusa's been looking forward to meeting you," Merlin says. "He's rather taken with the fact that you're a Pendragon." 

"What? Oh." Arthur can't stop staring at the baby dragon sleeping in his lap. There's an odd, peaceful, happy feeling gathering in his chest, and the feeling only seems to mellow and spread through him when he looks up at Merlin. "Oh," he says again.

Merlin looks down. "Maybe we did choose each other. A bit." 

*

Something blossoms between them after that moment. Arthur takes Merlin for a walk through the winter garden on the first frosty morning and feels a proud smile draw across his face as Merlin gazes at the icy trellises. 

"They're beautiful." 

"They're my mother's. She planned the garden the year my sister was born." Arthur grips Merlin's hand and leads him to the greenhouse at the back. "We can have tea in here when we decide the cold is too much."

"Not yet, though. I want to see the maze. And Aithusa wants to see the pond."

"Of course." 

Arthur leads Merlin through the garden, Aithusa perched on his shoulder, and can't help but smile every time Aithusa ruffles through his hair or cheeps at him with excitement. When they reach the pond, Merlin murmurs a soft phrase, and the frost that rimes the branches glows gold as if lit by the sun. 

"For you," he says. "You've given me this--"

"-as have you," Arthur replies. 

When they sit down to tea amongst the winter-blooming flowers and plants, Arthur reaches over to touch the side of Merlin's face. "The first night, I thought you looked... I don't know," he says, "but you're not. You're very handsome." 

Merlin practically snorts into his tea. "I'm not sure how to react to that. My portrait was painted when I came of age. A few years ago," he says. 

"Well. You're more handsome than your portrait, which was very good indeed. And much more handsome when you're not engulfed by what looked like miles of uncomfortable velvet." 

"Ah, again with the compliments." Merlin pours Arthur another cup of the hot, fragrant lemon tea, then pours some into a saucer to cool for Aithusa, and finally another cup for himself. He takes a few sips before glancing at Arthur. "We have coins in Cymru, minted when you were named Crown Prince of Camelot. And I remember seeing you once, during a royal visit, when we were both around ten or eleven. The coins look nothing like you, but I remembered your smile, and how you laughed at the players back then. Your smile," he says, suddenly shy. 

Merlin glances away from Arthur. His fingers on the gold-edged tea cup are fine and strong, winter-pale, and his dark hair curls around the edge of one ear, still pink from the chilly wind. 

Arthur thinks, perhaps, Merlin is the most handsome man he's ever seen. 

* 

They do not wait until the marriage ceremony for their first kiss. 

Arthur lets Merlin catch him by the fingertips in a hushed corridor, lets Merlin press him into a hidden alcove, and lets Merlin kiss him first. Kiss him and kiss him, lips against his cheek and jawline, warm mouth covering his and strong, careful fingers sliding into his hair to tug him closer. 

"It does not," Arthur says, out of breath, amazed, "need to remain a purely political arrangement." 

"No." Merlin kisses Arthur fondly on the lips. "It does not, my prince." 

* 

Winter fades, and Arthur marries Merlin beneath a gold-rimed trellis in the springtime sun, well-aware he was chosen long before he made any choice himself.


End file.
